


Paper Melody

by Changeling_Fae



Category: Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angsty Stuff, Erik has lessons to learn, F/M, I made it out of spite because of LND, I'm sure other tags will be added later, Murder, There will be fluff, but also character soul searching, this is my spite fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 17:30:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11605449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Changeling_Fae/pseuds/Changeling_Fae
Summary: Takes place after the events of Phantom where Erik ends up in England at a loss on what to do with his life and dealing with depression. His neighbor is a young woman who never speaks but keeps giving him false flowers and wood carvings and he ends up curious about her situation.This story is basically about allowing Erik to develop emotions outside of just memories of Christine and learning that he can find happiness in his life once he allows himself to grow.





	Paper Melody

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the first chapter of my Phantom of the Opera fic which was basically written out of spite because of Love Never Dies.
> 
> I get really angry when I think of how PotO’s ending was broken into shards of glass in LND’s plot, namely with what ALW did to our three main characters (and Meg).
> 
> This is not a E/C (although I do ship them) and instead focuses on Erik’s ability to grow and find love elsewhere since his lesson in PotO was putting Christine’s happiness above his own. Christine and Raoul will play big parts in later chapters because they deserve happiness too dammit.
> 
> Really my biggest grievance with LND’s is that Erik wasn’t allowed to grow as a character or person when that sort of was the big deal of the finale of PotO. My other major grievance was that Christine and Raoul weren’t allowed happiness when that’s what they fought for (also screw ALW for fridging female characters for male characters man pain).
> 
> I’ll admit, I’m really nervous about publishing this because I’ve never written an OC for an already existing story and don’t know how it’ll be received. I’m totally open to comments or questions though! The PotO 25th are the trio I envision for this.

The Phantom had assumed he would fade from the world, a lost broken soul in the same vein of his title, an echo of something long since dead. Christine Daae had left with her lover, the Vicomte, and he let her go, her happiness more important than his loneliness and despair.

He thought about just ending it all, killing himself and letting his corpse rot on the cold cobblestone for the rats to eat. He came close several times, after all what did he have to live for? Christine was forever out of his life and his music was nothing but a hollow echo in his mind.

 He wanted to end it and yet, instead he found himself in England, assuming the identity of a reclusive noble who happened to share the same first name. He was now Erik Fontaine, a wealthy Frenchman who lost his family in a fire and was the only survivor as a boy. The man was then not seen for nearly twenty years and had committed suicide recently unbeknownst to the rest of the world thanks to the few underground connections the Phantom took pains to keep.

It was then easy enough to forge signatures, pay the right undertakers, and with the money he had been saving from extorting the Opera House, was able to buy a modest estate outside of London. He should just end it all but instead he’ll let himself fade quietly into obscurity.

He hired only one servant, an old blind man who spoke very little named Oliver, and very rarely saw the man.

Erik caressed the keys of the piano in front of him but he could not bring himself to play anything. In all his years of loneliness he could conjure some form of music but now it was too painful, memories of Christine always at the forefront of his mind. Still, he persisted an attempt every day with little success or worse, he’d sometimes find himself singing _Think of Me_ like some curse that he could not escape.

The mask concealing his face was black now and he only wore it on the rare times he stepped outside, despite his property being fairly isolated. There was one other estate across the way, separated by a long old graveyard that used to share two long dead families. Perhaps a walk through the silent stone garden would inspire something…

He adjusted his mask and grabbed his cloak, stepping foot into the dreary grey of day. He had lived so long under the Opera House that even the cold grey sky seemed too bright but he continued forward into the graveyard, death and solitude at least something familiar.

Stone angels with serene expressions stared down at him as he passed by, triggering memories he’d sooner like to forget. Lost in his own thoughts he was startled when he turned a corner and came upon a young woman sitting on the steps of a mausoleum.

Long, blonde, loose curls sat around her face in disarray, as if it had once been done up but instead had been torn from its confines to lay wildly without order. Her skin was fair and her cheeks rosy from the cold air as her hands nimbly worked on paper flowers, unaware of his presence.

He would almost mistake her for a servant girl or lower with how undone her appearance was, her sleeves were pushed high up and there were tears in her stockings, she wasn’t even wearing a corset, but the clothing’s quality was too high and her skin too fair to be anything but upper class.

As if finally sensing she was no longer alone, her eyes shot up directly into his, revealing a soft grey-ish green like a lunar moth’s wing, and she leapt to her feet, scattering her flowers to the ground. She looked like she was hesitating to leave them but still she darted away before he could say or do anything.

She ran in the direction of the other estate and after a few moments of waiting to see if she would return, he stepped to her scattered flowers. He picked them up, noting they were nothing but wormwoods and marigolds in design, a rather strange combination.

He gently placed them back on the grave in case she returned for them and headed back to his own home.

He ate supper in solitude as he had for decades, the only difference now being he had Oliver lurking there in the background but he hadn't really hired the man for his conversation. He then retired to his library hoping maybe something would draw his interest but every book he picked up was just filled with lines without meaning to him.

After hours of suffocating silence and hurtful memories, he went to sleep and once again had a fitful slumber as his nightmares haunted him, filled with Christine and that fateful night he let her go. He awoke in a cold sweat, gasping for breath, the side of his deformed features burning from memory of his rejection.

Erik glanced out the window, the soft rays of a cold morning seeping in, filling the room with little warmth.

He really should just end it.

But once again as the day progressed and no music formed from his hands, he found himself in the graveyard again.

When he approached the spot the girl had been in earlier, he noted the flowers were gone and instead a wooden figurine was in its place.

Curiosity had him step closer, the figurine appeared to be a beautifully handcrafted angel holding a bouquet of white clovers, sycamore, and spiderwort, each petal carved with great detail.

Once again it was a strange flower combination but he could not deny the craftsmanship, even the painting over the wood was done with gentle loving care.

The irony that it was in the shape of an angel did not escape him but he was standing in a grave so it was hardly out of place.

He set it back down, having a feeling it was the girl who placed it here and assumed she was leaving it for a deceased love one.

At least he thought that originally, until he found it at the entrance of the grave on his side, facing his estate the next day.

Curious. Why give this to him? She had seemed startled and frightened when he came upon her those two days ago. Perhaps she was merely a bored noble who thought it a fun game.

Well he was done with games and tricks and shadows, he would return this back to where she originally placed it.

He did not expect her to be there, once again sitting in her spot with her disheveled appearance and once again making flowers out of paper.

He stood there awkwardly with it in his hands before clearing his throat to gain her attention.

She did not acknowledge him and he now spoke, "Mademoiselle, is this yours?"

She stopped briefly and pushed a red paper carnation to him before resuming her work. Not once did she look up but her heel was now tapping against the stone ledge she was sitting on.

He frowned, " Mademoiselle, I'd rather not play games, will you take this back?"

Once again she stopped, only this time to push a yellow paper carnation in his direction.

Maybe she was simple?

Before he could decide what to do next with the strange girl she stood up and approached him, her eyes fluttering in various directions but never directly at his face, and she handed him a paper bouquet of garden daisies.

He took it in surprise and she quietly walked away back to her estate, a bit of a skip to her step leaving him confused and a little intrigued.

It was this strange exchange sparking his curiosity, that had him returning the next day and the following day after that; finding her a welcome distraction from his grief although he knew better now than to get attached. It was merely curiosity that brought him back each day where he would find her sitting with her false flowers.

Sometimes he would try and ask her questions but she never responded except to sometimes give him her flowers. Most of the time it was just him standing awkwardly in her presence while she worked but he got the strange sense that she liked him being there. He didn't even know her name.

The irony that he was no longer the mysterious figure did not escape him and after a week and a half of this exchange he decided to call upon her estate.

It was a horrible idea that could easily backfire on him if he was not careful but a fellow noble who was the victim of a tragedy was a story other nobles could tolerate, as opposed to the reality of a deformed man being born with a defect to a poor woman on the streets.

His mask was black and nondescript and he himself a master at charm and deflection, this just being another role for him to play. It was a bad idea but he could pull it off, he just wanted to know who she was.

He approached the servant at the door with a nod of his head and the lie on his tongue, "I am Erik Fontaine, I sent a note this morning, I live across the way and wanted to finally introduce myself. Is the Lord or Lady of the House here?"

The servant nodded and let him inside, "Yes, the Lady Charlotte Hyde is always welcoming of guests, I shall let her know of your arrival. One moment please."

Lady Charlotte Hyde? Was that her name?

He did not have to wait long and was soon led into a sitting room where an elderly woman sat. She was clearly a woman of great wealth and standing but obviously not the mysterious girl he hoped to see.

The aged woman smiled while her grey eyes darted to his mask a couple of times, and she stood to curtsy as he took her hand with a bow in greeting.

"Mr. Fontaine, is it? It is a pleasure to finally meet our new neighbor. I had sent a footman to call upon you when you first moved in but I believe your butler stated you were not one for company."

He had a vague recollection of that but he didn't show it, instead smiling with an apologetic bow.

"A crime of my nature that I'm trying to fix actually. I apologize if I caused any offense, my move from France has simply been a long one."

She sat down and gestured for him to do the same with a wave, "Oh I took no offense, I'm merely surprised and delighted that you decided to pay us a visit."

"Us, Madame?" He inquired.

"She means us, good sir." Two more men entered, a portly man with a red face and a younger man with chiseled features, easily considered handsome and uncomfortably reminded him too much of Raoul.

Lady Hyde motioned to them, "My late husband’s brother-in-law, Charles Moore and his nephew, Henry Whitman."

They all stood and bowed to each other before sitting.

Maybe the girl was a servant after all but before he could ask he felt the young man's uncomfortable stare at his mask. He turned to stare back, his features set in an amiable expression, his brown eyes fixed on the man’s blue.

Henry grinned with a swagger and tapped his own face, "Headed to a masquerade my friend? I know the French can be a bit theatrical but I can tell you that the English are a bit duller than that."

"Do not be rude Henry," Lady Hyde scolded.

Erik just simply smiled as if it didn't bother him, "While I'll not disagree with you on the assessment of my countrymen, I'm afraid this mask has tragedy attached to it, you see my house perished in a fire when I was a boy and I was the only survivor. This mask is to keep everyone's sensibilities in place I'm afraid, my friend."

Emphasis was put on the last words as the lie came easily and Henry merely quirked a brow.

Lady Hyde spoke up, "Oh you poor man, what an awful tragedy. Well you are most welcome here should you desire company or the latest news from the city. I hardly leave thanks to my health so I always welcome gossip from these two."

Henry scoffed, "It's not only your health that keeps you here."

Lady Hyde sighed but did not dispute it, "You know she cannot handle outside society, she is delicate."

This time Charles spoke with an unamused snort, "Delicate is not the word I would use for her."

Erik cleared his throat, "It is not my business but is there another in the house?" Was it her?

Lady Hyde looked like she just remembered he was still here and cleared her own throat, "Hm, yes. My granddaughter Lilian Walden, she has lived with me since my daughter and son-in-law died over a decade ago."

"And she's a bit of a loon." Henry joked, not at all deterred by Lady Hyde's scolding yet resigned expression.

She then turned to a maid, "Will you fetch Lilian and Mrs. Foster please."

A few moments passed until the girl was walked out with a middle-aged woman (who uncomfortably reminded him of Madame Giry), holding her in place by the shoulders.

It really was his mystery girl and yet he couldn't help but note how uncomfortable she appeared before them, she was actually wearing a corset for one thing and her hair was done up tightly but every time she reached to pick at it, the woman behind her forced her hands down.

Mrs. Foster forced her to curtsy when he stood to greet her and the girl, Lilian, made a small noise of protest, the first sound he’s ever heard from her.

Lilian didn't look at anyone in the room and her eyes darted everywhere like a dragonfly as she kept reaching up to mess with her hair or scratch at her corset, only to be thwarted by Mrs. Foster's hands. She looked like a trapped animal wanting to flee even if it meant chewing off her own foot.

Lady Hyde's voice was gentle, "Lily, this is our new neighbor Mr. Erik Fontaine, can you say hello to him?"

Lilian didn't say a word, just clenched and unclenched her hands in an attempt not to pick at herself. He noticed her hands were covered in splinters and paper cuts, some new and some old.

Still, he gave another small bow, "It is a pleasure, Mademoiselle."

Silence.

"Oh, come now, girl! Surely after all these years you can at least manage a hello?" Charles’ voice boomed out.

Lilian flinched at the sudden loud sound and Erik felt such a wave of pity for the nervous creature in front of him that he regretted coming here and putting her through this.

Lady Hyde sighed and gave Lilian a tired smile, "It is alright my dear, Mrs. Foster will take you back to your room now."

She immediately ran out the room, yanking herself from Mrs. Foster grasp who chased after her and once she was gone Charles shook his head, "You're wasting money with that tutor, she'll never be part of civilized society. You should just have her committed, the doctors will know what to do with her."

Erik had to bite his tongue, he knew exactly what doctors did to patients in asylums. Instead he asked a question, “It is not my business but what afflicts her?”

Lady Hyde suddenly looked even older than she did before as she sighed, “The doctors don’t quite know, although they have plenty of theories. She never speaks, not even as a child save maybe a few times when her parents were alive, even though her vocal cords are perfectly healthy…”

Charles spoke up, “Also she throws the largest fits if you touch her, she even bit me once when I touched her shoulder, right on the hand.” He gestured to said hand which has long since healed.

Henry chuckled, “And that’s only the start of it all, other children used to call her a hobgoblin when we were kids, that a witch or troll stole the real Lilian and put an imp in her place.”

_“Come see the Devil’s Child,”_ Erik’s fist clenched on his knee.

Charles just snorted, “She’s just touched in the head is all there is to it.”

Erik kept his tone light to hide his discomfort, "Does she ever leave the house?"

Lady Hyde shook her head, "Oh heavens no, she occasionally will walk in our garden with Mrs. Foster chaperoning but being outside gives her the fits. She mostly stays in her room making her flowers and wood carvings, and other projects, that seems to keep her calm."

Well, clearly, she was sneaking out away from prying eyes, something he could relate to. It also meant she wasn't quite as simple as her family believed.

Henry grinned, "I already said, dear aunt Charlotte, that I'd marry her and take her off of your hands."

Erik didn't like that grin and Lady Hyde just shook her head, "I know you are concerned but she is fine here."

After a moment of silence Charles let out a noise of bemusement, "Such a shame a pretty girl like that was made so odd in the head."

The topics switched after that and after another hour passed he headed back home, now knowing her name but feeling uneasy about her situation, an eerie similarity to his own albeit different too.

He went to bed early that night, pretending to be sociable taxed him emotionally, and he drifted off thinking about her clenched fists and wild eyes, followed by more nightmares of him and Christine.

She was not there in their usual spot the next day or the following three days after and he wondered if she were somehow angry with him.

It actually bothered him even though he told himself he wouldn't get attached. Well, he always was bad at lying to himself but mulling over her situation meant he wasn’t thinking about Christine as much.

He stared at the carved angel which he kept in his library now and perhaps it was pure luck when his eyes darted over to the titles in his collection of books where one title stood out. He leapt up and pulled the book down, scanning it quickly, confirming his sudden suspicion. He let out a small laugh, she wasn't simple at all, she had been speaking to him in the language of flowers.

He flipped through the pages, searching for her messages that she had been giving him. Sycamores meant curiosity, she had been curious about him. The white clovers meant Think of Me and he realized she must have heard him play it at times. Spiderwort meant momentary happiness and he realized she liked his music.

The carnations were literally yes or no and the marigolds and wormwood he found when they first met was her personal message of isolation. The bouquet of garden daisies she had given him when he had tried to return the wooden angel literally meant “I share your sentiments”, she was telling him that she shared his feelings of isolation and sympathized with it.

He sat back in his seat at the revelation that she had been speaking to him this entire time, he wondered if her family knew this was how she spoke but quickly dismissed the notion when he remembered how they talked to her.

He spent that night absorbing and memorizing the book and was already formulating what to do for tomorrow. He just hoped she would appear this time.

When the time did come, he was pleased to see her once more on her perch although instead of working on her flowers, she was rocking back in forth in her seat, eyes closed as if to block out the world around her.

“Lilian?”

She opened her eyes to a single purple hyacinth that he held to her. She stared at it for a moment as all rocking ceased. There was a moment of deafening silence as he waited to see if she would accept his apology, before the largest smile broke out across her face, so bright it was almost blinding.

She took it from him and for a brief moment her eyes purposely met his before darting back down and he knew he just experienced something infinitely rare.

She got up, spinning and twirling with her flower as her joy could not be contained and he realized he might be the first person to understand her way of speaking. He stared in slight wonder, he couldn’t remember if he had ever made anyone smile like that before, Christine had sometimes smiled for his words but rarely for his actions.

After a moment more of this, she finally calmed down and quickly picked up blue paper sheets from the stack she always brought with her, sitting in her usual spot as she deftly created flowers from practically nothing.

He watched in rapt fascination as she thrummed from excitement and within minutes she had created a small bouquet of blue periwinkles and offered it to him.

He blinked and gently took them from her, she was offering him friendship. He… couldn’t say he ever had a friend before; Christine had been his protégé and object of his affection, not his friend.

He didn’t know how to respond, in all honesty he was baffled. All his life he had been treated as lesser, a freak of nature who should have been drowned at birth, leading to his decades of crippling isolation and desperation for companionship which of course lead to him killing his relationship with Christine from said desperation.

He didn’t know how to be someone’s friend.

_He murders all that’s good._

He took a step back and her smile died a little.

He didn’t say anything and her smile turned sad with a quiet resignation, as if telling him she too was used to being friendless and was resigned to his refusal. He remembered her family’s actions toward her and how they spoke about her, a creature to be pitied.

He knew what that sense of isolation does to a person (really, he was a cautionary tale on the result of it) and perhaps it is with this common ground between them that he can learn how to be a friend.

His next words had her give him a curious look, “Do you play any music?”

She handed him her yellow carnation, the carnations being something she kept on her at all times, the yellow meaning ‘no’.

He smiled a bit mysteriously, like a child with a secret, “Would you like to learn?”

She looked surprised and her hand went to her throat, causing him to shake his head, “I was thinking the piano might be something you’d be suited for, your fingers are already dexterous and flexible. It’ll leave less splinters and papercuts too.” He said dryly.

She looked down at her fingers and flexed them, as if she didn’t even realize she had cuts.

Her language was soft and he had a sudden desire for everyone to hear her, if they wouldn’t listen to her flowers then he would lend her his music.

“Having no voice doesn’t mean you have to be _voiceless_.”

She made eye contact at that and for a moment he actually thought he saw tears form before he felt another carnation placed in his hands. This time he broke eye contact to look down to see that it was red, _yes._

He smiled as he clutched it, “Excellent.” Now to convince Lady Hyde. “Tomorrow I will ask your grandmother if I can tutor you.”

And if she says no… well, he’ll find a way.

Lilian looked up at him (well his chin) and gave him a small smile, squeezing his hand with her carnation before pulling back to head back home. She turned to give him one last wave leaving him feeling a sense of excitement in a way he hadn’t felt since he first met Christine.


End file.
